When Sweetness Wears a Mask
by LadyMoncrieff
Summary: Emmanuelle is parentless, a girl who knows only of life in an orphanage. She has never tasted candy, but knows its every other secret. When she runs away from something for the first time, will she peek behind the mask? T for future themes
1. Chapter 1

A/N: My first CatCF fic. Written in various tenses (past and present) and various points of view. There'll be a plot, it just isn't there yet.

Miss Letitia Winston had always been strict with her girls. They were not allowed to watch TV. They were not allowed to eat candy, even on Halloween, or Christmas, or any other lovely holiday. They were not allowed to speak the name of the Lord in vain, nor were they allowed to think of anything but God, and how he would want them to live.

It was little better than a convent, that orphanage. Each girl wore the same thing, pleated khaki skirt, and a navy blue pullover or cardigan over a white peter pan blouse, buttoned to the throat. On special occasions, they could put a rhinestone pin in their hair, but they never had a rhinestone pin anyway.

It was no deviation from the rules, however, to wear a hair ribbon. It was, however, a severe offense to wear any other color than blue.

Emmanuelle's favorite color was not a color at all, but a shade.

Emmanuelle's favorite shade was black.

"Emmanuelle," Miss Winston says, barely bridling her rage, under the will of God, "the girls tell me you wore that black ribbon again."

Emmanuelle stands before the woman and takes the scolding, twisting the ribbon in her hands, behind her back. She has heard this many times before, for wearing her favorite ribbon. Miss Winston is a woman of God, she knows, and means well. However, the woman had never been taught the gentler side of the Lord, had never been taught of his forgiveness and his love for children. Emmanuelle forgives her. It's in her nature, and she doesn't like to hate people. She does hate some people, though, and it hurts her soul.

"What have you to say for yourself, Emmanuelle?" Miss Winston demands.

"Only that I am very sorry for my sins, Miss Winston, and I shall strive to obey, as is God's will," Emmanuelle says quietly. She folds the ribbon, over and over again, and tucks it gently in her pocket as Miss Winston turns away and crosses herself.

"Go," Miss Winston orders. "Go out to the church and go to confession. And pray the rosary, for the sake of your soul!"

Emmanuelle runs at the chance to leave. She is only twelve, nearly thirteen, but Miss Winston knows that, despite her occasional rule-breaking, she is a mature and responsible, and a strong girl to boot. Besides, she has been there the longest-since she was barely six months old, and Miss Winston has an itsy-bitsy soft spot for her.

She flies down the street to the church, her lovely, richly-dark, coppery-chestnut hair flowing behind her as she runs against the wind. Emmanuelle is often seen running down that street to the church, the pretty young girl whom every shop owner on the street knows affectionately as Emmy.

At the church, she dips her fingers in baptismal font and crosses herself, facing the crucifix. Emmanuelle loves the church; she always has. It has always been a place for her to wish and to dream, and to tell God all about her life and to thank him for her blessings.

It doesn't take long to confess her sins. There is no one there but the kindly old priest, who loves her almost as much as he loves his faith. He is like a father to her, and he is, after all, her priest.

After she prays the rosary, though, Emmanuelle leaves quickly. She wants to run by the library to check out another book before four-thirty, when she will have to run back to the orphanage. Every time she goes, she reads another book about the magic and mystery of candy. Emmanuelle loves candy, even though she's never tasted it. She loves the idea of something so whimsical, something so unnecessary. It rivals her love of masks, and being something you're not, for a while. She thinks that masks and candy must go hand in hand, that someone might wear a mask to hide from the world, and eat candy to comfort themselves from the word.

It's a perfect idea, and it isn't alone. She has many ideas.

As she runs out of the church she accidentally bumps into someone, a tall someone, and lands on her rump, apologizing profusely.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm terribly, terribly sorry," she cries quickly.

The tall someone leans over and puts a hand over her mouth. "Enough of that, now. Where are you going so fast, Emmy?"

Emmanuelle looks up into the fact of the dentist who sometimes runs by the area. His name escapes her suddenly, and she quails at the prospect of guessing, when she should know it well. "Oh! I'm going to the library, to find another book on candy..." She trails off as the dentist's expression darkens a little. "...and its harmful effects on the enamel of the teeth," she adds quickly.

"Good girl," he tells her, his dark expression lifted. "Mind you brush and floss at least twice a day."

"I do, sir, religiously," she says, and nearly giggles at the fact that she makes the statement just outside of a church.

Emmanuelle sets off for the library again, a little more slowly. She's noticing everything today, and today, she notices the enormous factory on the other side of the street. Somehow, she's never noticed it before. Of course, there are a lot of things she hasn't noticed, but there are many more subtle things that she has.

And arm wraps around her waist, and a hand claps over her mouth. There's nobody else on the street, no one to scream to. She can't scream, anyway. The smell of alcohol drifts over her, and she wrinkles her nose. Then the urge to escape over comes her, and she bites the hand over her mouth. She is released, and she runs again, runs like tomorrow won't come and she has to make today last.

Emmanuelle sees only the gates before her, the gates of that great factory. Somehow, she leaps up and scales the gates like a spider. She wears a mask again, this of some prey, like the fox chased by the hunters, or the rabbit chased by the fox.

And her talent for clumsiness runs her smack-dab into a door as she glances behind her.


	2. Parcel

Willy Wonka had never really found anything on his doorstep. Perhaps, once in his life, he had found a parcel, but nothing else. He kept to himself, and the world kept to itself. That was the way that life had gone for the past eight years, and he didn't have any intention of changing that.

However, someone else did.

Wonka was passing by his front door, for no particular reason, when he heard a soft yip and a considerably un-soft _whump_. He stopped, turned, and stared at the door for a moment.

He had a somewhat inquisitive nature. It had never failed him, constantly aiding him in finding a new flavor, or another delightful recipe. Today, it would lead him to something quite different.

Tentatively, he made his way to the door. He rarely ventured this far from the other rooms of the factory, and it almost frightened him to be there. Opening the door, he looked out across the empty lot, and saw nothing. Then, Wonka looked down.

There was a person there on the ground, a small person. Her hair was a lovely, dark auburn color, and her face was clear and fair. Long lashes brushed her cheekbones, inconspicuous in a doll's round face. A bruise was forming on one of those pale cheeks, no doubt from her contact with the door. Wonka had no idea why she had run into the door in the first place. It didn't seem like a very intelligent thing to do.

Of course, who was he to judge people's wisdom? He had employed people he couldn't trust, and they had stabbed him in the back.

Could he trust the poor, pathetic little thing on the ground before him? He didn't like trusting people. The only sort of people he had trusted over the last eight years were the Loompas, who were the most trustworthy people in the world.

Acting on a whim, he rested his cane against the wall and scooped up the girl, walking quickly off.

He left his cane against the wall.

A/N: Sorry it's so short! My brain's shot.

Anyway, a gift for my ONE AND ONLY REVIEWER:

Mlle. Opera Ghost- merp is my word! You shall never be able to steal it! AN I SPENT HOURS ON THAT ALGEBRA! But thank you!


	3. Black Licorice

Here are responses to my lovely and un-lovely reviewers:

**Mlle. Opera Ghost**- thank you. I hope you find him the same in this chapter, dear...MERP IS AND SHALL FOREVER BE MINE!

**Erik-Meister**- my dearest Mary, if you don't like Willy, then...oh. I don't know _what_ to say to you about that. But thank you! And yes, House is wonderful. Wonder if there's a category...anywho, Loompas will be corrected.

**FOPkiller15**- I don't _care_, Eric.

**Two Bit's Twobit**- Why, thank you, dear! Here you are!

Alright, my actual A/N:

This nice long chapter is to make up for my previous, sinfully short chapter. Note: big Oscar Wilde homage.

Disclaimer: (since I forgot it before) I don't own Willy. I want to, but I don't. The economy-size rope hasn't come in the mail yet. Emmanuelle, however is MINE. All MINE.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

I poke my head through the doorway to look in on my young discovery. The room in which I placed her, while not one of my personal favorites, is especially pretty; all spun sugar, marzipan, and black licorice. Her bed is draped with black and white gossamer threads, half concealing her from my view.

As I watch her, I realize that she can't be older than thirteen, though she gives an air of being almost fifteen. She seems also as if she belongs here, in this room, with her Victorian beauty and maturely-youthful charm.

She stirs as I look at her in silence. Waking, she sits up with an expression of deep thought. It is quickly replaced by one of horror as she touches her bruised cheek, and gingerly tips her face into her hands.

I walk in. in an attempt to cheer her a little, I announce brightly, "Good morning, Starshine! The earth says hello!"

"That's ridiculous," she mutters into her hands.

I don't have enough time to be offended, as she raises her head and stares at me, shocked at herself, and begins to spew forth apologies at an alarming rate. Eventually, she trails off, staring in wonder at me, and at the room.

A series of fascinating expressions follows. "This..." She trails off. "You...you look like Oscar Wilde," she says finally.

"Thank you!" I tell her cheerfully. "I really like him. His plays are the only ones-"

"That make any sense," she finishes. "I know. Isn't _Lady Windermere's Fan_ just marvelous?"

I nod, smiling, but then, I'm not sure what to say. Apparently, she doesn't either, but she finally offers her hand. "Hi, I'm...my name is Emmanuelle."

A little bit embarrassed, I stare at the offered hand with no intention of returning the gesture. I don't like touching people (at this point I would pointedly cough, _"Cooties!"_), and I never have...ew.

"Uhh...okay," I say. "I'm Willy Wonka."

At first, Emmanuelle is shocked. Then her eyes light up, and I'm almost delighted to see an eight-year-old shining out of her too-mature eyes. "Really! Oh, you're exactly as I expected!"

"Ahh...that's great..." It's a pleasant change from the shocked and somber girl I had first seen, but...it seems so strange to think that someone is so happy to know who you are.

"I've read all about you," Emmanuelle continues. "all about you, and the factory, and how you shut it down eight years ago-good heavens, I was hardly five!-and the candy, too! I've never had any, but the conf-"

"Hold the phone," I interrupt. "You've never had _any_ of my candy?"

"No, but I-"

"Slugworth's?"

"No, but you see-"

"Anyone's?" I demand.

She stares for a moment. "No."

I cough and lean heavily on my cane, staring. "You are so _deprived_, little girl."

Emmanuelle is indignant. "I am not little! In fact, I-"

"Believe you are more than usually tall for your age?" I supply sarcastically.

"No! Well, yes, that too, but I was raised in a _very_ controlled atmosphere," she explains.

"Really."

"You have _no_ idea," she mutters.

_I might_, I think, but I remain silent. She's silent, too, inspecting the ink, graphite, and charcoal stains on her fingertips.

"Do you fingerpaint?" I ask at last, determined to break the silence.

"No. I sketch," she says evasively.

"Oh. What do you sketch?"

"Things I see...people I see...things I wish I see." The last part is so quiet, I can hardly hear it.

"Oh. That's nice. So how did you end up at my front door with a big bruise on your face?" I ask.

"I was...I was running, from someone, and I just kept moving forward, and, next thing I know, I'm hitting the door, and now I'm here."

"That's all?" I ask.

"No, but I don't want to tell you the rest," she tells me stubbornly.

"Why not?" I demand.

"I don't think I trust you yet. I don't even know _where_ I am."

"Not trusting me and not thinking you trust me are two entirely different things," I tell her sagely.

She glares, and I see a side of her that is much different from the profusely-apologizing girl or the gleeful fan.

After a pause, I say, "I'll go, then."

XxXxXxXxxxXxXxXxXxXxX

I glared after him as he left. I didn't have any right to, as I knew he would possess a sort of contrariness, but I did anyway. It didn't really matter, but I hated it when the fact that I liked to sketch was so easily brushed aside. I clung to the idea that my art was a reflection of myself, and I was no fly to swat away.

However, I also like to over analyze. After a moment, my anger subsided into regret, and I slid down from the bed to pray for forgiveness. I didn't even want to try the door, for fear that Wonka might be standing there, waiting for me to give in.

I had never been anything but faithful to God, but I had always been rather resolute. You had to be, to be Catholic, considering all of the contradictions and hypocrisies that people had found and pointed out.

While I prayed, kneeling beside the bed, I didn't notice a small someone opening the door and walking over to gently tug at my sleeve.

I turned. "Good heavens!" I cried.

The person standing next to me couldn't have been more than three feet tall. He was wearing a rather peculiar suit, and holding out a letter.

I took the letter, my brow furrowed, and opened it.

_Dear Guest,_

_I hope you are enjoying your stay at my factory, even though you haven't been awake very long. I would like to request that you have dinner with me tonight around five o'clock. Don't wear your uniform. The Oompa Loompa (his name is Ernest) will find you a suitable outfit._

_Your host,_

_Willy Wonka_

I glared at the letter for a moment, until the Oompa Loompa –I remembered his name was Ernest shuffled his feet a little.

"Does he honestly expect me to _dine_ with him?" I asked the little person, suddenly feeling as though I'd fallen into some fairy tale or another.

The diminutive man paused for a moment, and then nodded. I sighed. "Well, dress me in whatever you'd like. I really don't care."

He grinned and raced off to the door. After a few moments, he returned to the door and beckoned for me to follow him. k

A/N: Aahh...the irony of being earnest...ahem. not really, but you get the idea.


End file.
